


Contempt

by anstoirm



Series: under new leadership [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Low Chaos (Dishonored), The Whalers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 12:05:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18620278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anstoirm/pseuds/anstoirm
Summary: Hobson's past seems determined to keep crossing paths with him in Karnaca. He's willing to ignore the majority of it, but he truly does wish this particular piece of his past had remained gone and buried. Daud may have once lifted the Whalers out of the gutters of society, but they no longer need him.He'll have to realize that, sooner or later.





	Contempt

Every so often over the last eight years something managed to drive Hobson deep into his own thoughts.

Sometimes it’s the sight of the sunset, sometimes the sound of someone reciting the seven strictures, and sometimes it’s a ragged body left bloodied and on the street for the rats to feed on. Sometimes even just the act of performing a transversal sent him back in time--let alone when the black-eyed bastard decided to draw him into the void for a chat.

Those visits had been thankfully rare. Neutral on the Outsider these days or not, his (its?) presence was unnerving and his words were always far too cryptic for Hobson’s tastes.

One time, during an outing with his Whalers in Tyvia, Hobson had walked past a beggar on the street. His hands had been holding out a bowl with loose coin rattling in it from how violently the man was shivering. Fingers and lips blue, ragged clothes clearly unable to ward off the biting chill of the Tyvian climate.

The man would have been dead if it were the Month of High Cold.

Memories weren’t often a thing Hobson liked to revisit, but the sight of the man had catapulted him right back to the months--or had it been years?--he’d spent coinless and homeless, cold and hungry, on Dunwall’s streets.

He’d given the man his entire coin pouch and advice to book a voyage for Dunwall, where the City was eager for industrial workers after driving the plague out, and had moved on.

Grimacing and pushing up from his hunched position over the table with two dozen missives and letters and a few maps with notes and markers scrawled on them, Hobson rolls his shoulders and twists his neck to work out the kink that had begun to form.

He stares down at the missives before him with unfocused eyes, arms crossing and one hand lifting to idly trace along the edges of the scars of the heretic’s brand on his face.

Every so often, something drives Hobson deep into his own thoughts. Rarely was it that that _something_ came to _him_ rather than him happening across it by chance, and he wishes this _particular_ something hadn’t decided to come to him at all.

Exhaling heavily Hobson leans forward again, weight shifting as he lifts one particular letter off the table to read it carefully. He’s determined to ignore the man trying to pretend he’s hidden until his patience comes to an end.

No doubt Daud thought Hobson was still the impatient, angry little shit he had once been fifteen years ago and would be the first to cave in.

He might’ve been, had he never met Elizabeth or figured out what it was like trying to raise two kids that sometimes seemed to want to kill each other.

He’s isn’t any more surprised about the fact Daud is here than he is that Daud is still alive at all--the old man wouldn’t have survived so long as the most wanted man in the Isles if he didn’t know how to disappear and stay that way, and he wouldn’t have _become_ the most wanted man in the Isles if he didn’t have the skills to keep himself alive.

Regardless, however skilled Daud remained after fifteen years and far into his years of life, Hobson wasn’t just another Whaler with a fringe of taste for the Outsider’s black magic. 

He had his own tricks up his sleeve, now, which meant that Hobson had known Daud was in the room--hidden in the cracked-open closet on the far wall--the second he’d returned from gathering intel with Bertholt.

A near-silent _pthwip_ breaks the quiet of the room and Hobson looks up from the missive in his hand.

“We’ve swept the entirety of Cyria Gardens,” Lux says, rapping his gloved knuckles twice on the table Hobson had claimed in the Whalers’ temporary headquarters in Karnaca. “Seems like the last of Delilah’s coven has fled.”

“Probably back to Dunwall.” Hobson agrees, eyes flicking over to another letter detailing goings-on back in Dunwall to confirm his suspicion. “The witch knows she’s losing ground and is bolstering the tower before Lady Emily returns.”

Lux shifts in his periphery. “You think she’ll make a move soon?”

“Within the next few weeks. Nearly every one of Delilah’s connections here have been eliminated by one means or another. The Lord Protector taught her well.”

Both of them are silent as Hobson finishes scanning the letter in his hand.

He sets it down to one side of the table and then turns, stooping to grab a knapsack off the floor. It’s tossed over to Lux unceremoniously. “Track down Misha and the twins. See if you can’t help Karnaca’s finest with the bloodfly problem in that section.”

Lux props the bag open and looks inside, staring at the bundles of incendiary bolts and various things that make other things go boom--then looks up at Hobson. He’s wearing a mask and yet somehow still manages to convey a humorless, flat look. “This station sucks, Hobson.”

He snorts and leans on the table again, eyes drifting back down to the papers and maps in front of him. “We do all we can to help out while we’re here. We’ll head back for the stuffy aristocrats and rain as soon as the Lady Empress does.”

“Sounds like a dream, boss.” Lux responds grumpily, shifting to haul the sack over his shoulder. He doesn’t leave, however, and Hobson lifts an eyebrow at him expectantly. “D’you think she’s gonna take your offer?”

He drops his eyes to the table and drums the fingers of his left hand once. “Hard to tell.”

“But you want us there anyway.”

“Just in case.” Hobson says.

Whether Emily asks for their help officially or not, Hobson wasn’t about to just sit back and let Delilah kill her or get away with whatever it is she has planned--especially since he’d had no success in getting intel on that front.

The witches were difficult enough to trick and sneak around as it was, but Delilah had gone to _special_ lengths with the tower compared to the old Brigmore Manor. None of the others had faulted him for it, but the loss of Rinaldo on that infiltration mission had been weighing heavily on Hobson in the months since.

He’s acutely aware that Daud was listening in to this entire conversation. He can’t say he cares overmuch. It wasn’t like Daud could pop out of the closet he’s been holed up in and deliver a different set of orders.

Even if he did, Hobson knows that none of the Whalers held enough respect for Daud to shift their loyalty back to him. 

He wouldn’t delude himself into thinking it had much to do with whatever talent for leadership he may have or anything at all with regards to his still frequently surly attitude, but several of them had admitted they’d only remained with Daud out of fear or a sense of obligation. He had, after all, given many of them new lives and lifted them out of the gutters.

He says nothing further. Lux dips his head and then vanishes in another transversal.

Ten minutes pass after that with the only sounds being the sad ticking of a grandfather clock on its last legs and Hobson’s fingers drumming out an idle beat on the wood table in front of him, interspersed with the shifting of papers as he took in the information that he’d been collecting.

He’s not sure why or when he started wanting to keep tabs on _everything_ , but he tells himself it’s better to be informed and ahead of the curve than not.

The light in the corner flickers, briefly washing the abandoned apartment in shades of darkness that he hardly seems to notice.

“You may as well come out, Daud.” Hobson says.

Another thirty seconds and he hears the creak of a closet door sliding open. Footsteps cross the dusty floor, and he doesn’t bother to look up. As Daud steps around to the table and into the corner of his vision, Hobson grabs one missive in particular and folds it up, setting it aside in a pile he’d mentally labeled ‘look into later’.

“I’d heard the Whalers were still operating.” Daud’s voice still sounds like he’d decided to gargle a bunch of rusty nails in the morning, and Hobson finds it far more grating on his nerves than it ever used to be. Considering he already wanted to strangle Daud on a daily basis just for speaking fifteen years ago, that was saying something. “Had wondered who was leading them. Last person I expected was you.”

“Surprised the void out of me too, old man.”

Daud doesn’t say anything to that. Hobson doesn’t offer anything else.

The silence that falls between them after is tense and just shy of hostile. Daud is radiating authority that Hobson knows is meant to cow and intimidate him into falling into step, and there’s the slightest twinge in his hand--centered right on the blackened sigil burned into it--but Hobson ignores it.

If there was one good thing to have come out of the brand that had marked him as an enemy of the good virtues of the Isles when he was barely a whelp of a man, it was a high tolerance for pain.

Daud had no control over him or any of the others anymore. His power came directly from the emissary of the void himself, and the Whalers now shared it with _him_ , not Daud.

Hobson continues to ignore Daud, shifting papers and maps around and muttering to himself. His hands pause over a letter he’d missed before and he frowns. Picking it up and recognizing the handwriting he quickly folds and pockets it to read later.

The authority projected by the older man flickers with aggravation that Hobson all too readily returns. “So we’re doing philanthropy, now?”

His expression twists with a momentary lapse of fury and he stands fully upright then, his arms folding over his chest and his eyes fixing Daud with a steely glare filled with so much contempt and loathing that it would have put a younger Hobson to shame.

“There is no _we_.” He says, voice full of venom. “Whatever hole you crawled out of, you can crawl right back in it. You vanished without a word and left us drifting with nowhere to go. None of us, save for _you_ , had a secret backup plan to fall into when the shit hit the fan. You abandoned us, and we rebuilt without you.”

Fifteen years ago, Hobson would have balked at the idea of staring Daud down like this and wouldn’t have dared to threaten or stand up to him.

He had _hated_ Daud back then just as he hated Daud now, but the man had held a sway over all of them that had left no room for questioning. Daud was the leader, Daud was the source of their power, Daud was the one that had lifted many of them from sordid lives--being assassins and kidnappers wasn’t much of an improvement, but it was better than being adrift without a purpose, and for that reason they’d all held somewhat of a grudging respect, if not for the man himself then for what he’d done for them.

It had taken Hobson fifteen years to realize what he knew now; Daud hadn’t given them a second chance because of goodwill, no matter what excuses the man had told himself to sleep better at night.

Daud looks taken aback for a moment, his lips turning down at the corners and his brow furrowing as he carefully takes in Hobson’s appearance. Likely comparing who he’d been back then with who he was now.

No longer the unkempt, misanthropic ex-overseer afraid to show his face or trust his peers, but the leader of the Whalers, standing tall and unafraid to show his scars in an open dare to the rest of the world.

Hobson had changed over the years, and he knew it was for the better.

Daud, on the other hand, looked and sounded as though he had stagnated the moment he’d shoved a blade through Jessamine Kaldwin’s heart. His eyes settle on the chain around Hobson’s neck and the ring it’s looped through. “Seems like you’ve figured out how to do things differently. You got married?”

“And have two kids.”

Daud blinks at the easy response. “You’re not worried I’ll use that knowledge against you?”

“You could try.” Hobson replies icily, the subtle threat of blackmail to force him back into line brushed off as easily as kingsparrow feathers. “You’d be dead before you even got close to them.”

The older assassin’s expression darkens by shades, full of warning and intimidation that no longer works on him and likely wouldn’t have any effect on any of the others, either. Daud had lost his teeth, his Whalers having left him behind, and Hobson has every intention of making him aware of that fact.

 _Ego homini Lupus_. _Your favorite saying, Daud. How does it feel to be on the other end for once_?

“We don’t need or want you back, Daud. Whatever it is you want us for, find your toy soldiers somewhere else. Now leave--I’ve got more important things to worry about than an old man that still thinks he’s king of the hill.”

With that, Hobson returns his attention to his missives and letters; as far as he’s concerned, he’s done here.

Daud can burn for all he cares.

“I’m going to kill the Outsider.” Daud says after a length.

He had hoped the old man would’ve taken the silence as a hint to leave, but the abrupt statement gives him substantial pause. His hand hovers over a newspaper clipping Edon had sent from Morley.

If the Outsider died, would they lose their powers again?

On the one hand it would be a blessing, provided Daud had a plan to accomplish it soon. If _they_ lost their powers then it meant _Delilah_ would as well--leaving Lady Emily and her father free to retake the throne and reclaim the Isles from the madwoman with little opposition.

On the other…

If someone had told Hobson fifteen years ago he’d reach a point in his life where he was _afraid_ to lose the black-eyed bastard’s gift, he would have laughed himself to death. “And?”

“Of all people I would have expected you to be interested in the idea.”

“You should have asked me fifteen years ago.” Hobson replies flatly. 

The Abbey had once brainwashed him into believing that the Outsider was the source of all the evil in the world around him, the reason men did reprehensible things. Rape, abuse, murder--assassinating empresses. Abducting children. All of it. 

_Recite the seven strictures and remain true to them, that you may remain free of the Outsider’s vile influence._

It was the easy excuse for mortals.

The Outsider was nothing more than an ephemeral force, neither good nor bad, and it wasn’t _him_ that drove men to evil. It never had been. He just liked to supply the dominos and see which way men made them fall.

Daud was free to blame his own shortcomings on the Outsider’s influence.

Once upon a time, Hobson had dared to question the High Overseer’s morals and dedication to the Abbey’s beliefs, and he had been branded a heretic and banished from society as a result. Which had been the Outsider’s influence--the young man pointing out the moral failings of a gluttonous buffoon, or the man in a place of power _abusing_ that power?

Hobson had long since come to the conclusion that if the Outsider’s influence was in anything, it was a passive influence at most.

“It seemed to me like you were trying to do something good in the world. The Empire wouldn’t have fallen to this state if it weren’t for him.” Daud says.

Daud had screwed up, and now Daud was trying to pass the blame off onto something else.

He knows trying to convince the man of this fact would be like blowing on a brick wall and hoping it crumbles. “We aren’t going to do your dirty work because you refuse to accept that the only reason your life fell apart was because of _you_ , not the powers you willingly accepted from a god that doesn’t care what happens _to_ any of us or _what_ any of us do.”

Silence is the response he receives.

Hobson lifts his gaze and once more fixes a cold, stony glare on Daud. “ _Leave_.”

He can feel the anger radiating off of the older man as he turns to leave, and he can’t say he cares. It’s fully reciprocated. He hadn’t ever thought that he could hate Daud more than he had when he was younger, but this encounter had proved him wrong.

Still, he draws into his magic and watches the man’s retreating back.

Hobson waits until he can no longer see or sense Daud’s steps through nearby shadows before he grabs the closest clean sheet of paper he can find and a pen, and starts writing a pair of messages to allies he’d left behind in Dunwall and to someone he’s put off writing to for far too long.

Someone who’d already written him, and whose letter sits in his pocket still waiting to be read.

He’d just threatened and insulted one of the most dangerous men in the Empire; justified or not, deserved or not, he’d put her, Cecily, and Gabriel in danger. Lev and Rulfio needed to know to double their vigilance.

As he writes he lifts his left hand and clenches it shut, dark wisps like smoke winding around it.

A moment later a quiet _pthwip_ breaks the silence and Thomas appears. “What do you need, Hobson?”

“Daud is heading southeast through the Artisan District. Rooftops for now, though I suspect he’ll make his way to the streets once he _imagines_ he’s not being followed.” Hobson says without preamble, not taking his eyes off the words he scrawls across the paper.

“Daud?” Thomas stiffens at the name; none of them had so much as mentioned him for years, and now he was on their doorstep. “You want me to follow?”

At this he does look up and he nods, barely concealing the distaste in his expression. “He’s either found a way or is trying to find a way to kill the Outsider. I want you and Bertholt to follow him and I want you to stay two steps ahead. Whatever he’s looking for, use your best judgement call on how to deal with him _or_ it. I want him stopped.”

Hobson expects Thomas to question why he--of all people, who had spent many, _many_ years loathing the Outsider and everything connected to him to the detriment of himself--was trying to protect the Outsider.

Instead, Thomas dips slightly in acknowledgement and then vanishes.

He’s always been a vindictive bastard. Hobson knows this and has resented himself for it far more often than he was willing to admit--but he wasn’t going to lie to himself and say that the thought of putting a blade through the Knife of Dunwall’s heart, should he ever get the chance, wouldn’t be the most satisfying thing he’d ever do.

Every so often, something drove him deep into his own thoughts.

Right then, Hobson could only hope his thoughts wouldn’t disappoint Elizabeth _too_ much.

**Author's Note:**

> me, staring Arkane Studios directly in the face as i ignore DOTO entirely: I Recognize The Council Has Made A Decision But Given That It's A Stupid-Ass Decision I've Elected to Ignore It


End file.
